Red Mume Blossom
Enjoying sleep and shunning sadness, she blossoms late,
Afraid an icy look might not be up to date.
Like peach and apricot she rouges her fair face;
Like snow and frost she has her lonely, slender grace.
Her heart is cold and will not seek to please as spring;
Her skin like jade is tinged with the hue wine would bring.
How can she be described? An old poet knows not
But says she’s leafless peach and green-boughed apricot.